Robin Redbreast Part 21

It had not proved untrue to itself even now. There was a smile on his somewhat worn face--a smile that was seen in the eyes too, as real smiles should always be--as his daughter came into the room to see that he had everything he wanted about him.

'It is really getting colder at last, father,' she said. 'At Thetford, Bessie writes, they have had some snow. And Margaret was delighted because it made her think of Christmas, and Christmas means coming home.'

'Poor old Mag!' said Captain Harper. 'Mag' was his own special name for his youngest daughter; and no one else was allowed to use it. 'Poor old Mag! I really think she's very happy at school, though--don't you, Camilla? Bessie, I knew, would be all right, but I had my misgivings about Mag. And it is in every way such a splendid chance for them. It would be'----And he hesitated.

'What, father?'

'Such a pity to break it up,' he said, 'as--we have almost come to think must be done.'

'They would be perfectly miserable to stay there, if they understood--as indeed they do now,' Camilla replied, 'that it would be only at the cost of what you _must_ have, father dear.'

Her voice, though low, was very resolute. Captain Harper glanced at her half-wistfully.

'I wish you didn't all see things that way,' he said. 'You see it's this, Camilla. If I go up to London to be under Maclean for three months, it _may_ set me up again to a certain point, but unless it be followed by the "kur" at the baths, and then by that other "ma.s.sage"

business within a year or so, it would be just the old story, just what it was before, only that I am three or four years older than I was, and--certainly not stronger. So this is the question--is it _worth while_? It will be at such a cost--stopping Bessie and Mag's schooling, wearing out your mother and you--for what will be more trying than letting this house for the spring, as must be done, and moving you girls into poky lodgings. That, at least, we have hitherto managed not to do.

And then the strain on your poor mother being up alone with me in London--so dreary for her too. And at best to think that a partial, temporary cure is all we can hope for. No, my child, I cannot see that it is worth it. I am happy at home, and more than content to bear what must be, after all not so very bad. And I _may_ not get worse. Do, darling, try to make your mother see it my way.'

It was not often--very, very seldom indeed--that Captain Harper talked so much or so long of himself. Now he lay back half-exhausted, his face, which had been somewhat flushed, growing paler than before.

Camilla wound her arms round him and hid her face on his shoulder.

'Father dearest,' she whispered, doing her best to hide any sign of tears in her voice, 'don't be vexed or disappointed, but I _can't_ see it that way. It seems presumptuous for me to argue with you, but don't you see?--the first duty seems so clear, to do what we _can_. Surely there can be no doubt at all about that? And who knows--_something_ may happen to make the rest of what is prescribed for you possible. And even if not, and if the three months in London only do a little good, at least we should all feel we had tried everything. Father dearest, if we _didn't_ do it, do you think mother and Bessie and I--and the boys when they hear of it, and even the two little ones--do you think we should ever again feel one moment's peace of mind? Every time you looked paler or feebler, every time we saw you give the least little wince of pain--why, I think we should go out of our minds. It would be unendurable.'

Captain Harper stroked her fair soft hair fondly.

'But, dear, suppose it doesn't do any good, or much? Suppose'--and his voice grew very low and tender--'suppose all this increased suffering and weakness is only the beginning of the end--and sometimes I cannot help thinking it would be best so--my darling, it would _have_ to be endured.'

Camilla raised her tear-stained face and looked at her father bravely.

'I know,' she said quietly. 'It may be. Mother and I don't deceive ourselves, though it is no use dwelling upon terrible possibilities. But even then, don't you see the difference? We should feel that we had done our best, and--and that more was not G.o.d's will.'

'Yes,' said her father, 'I see how you mean. I suppose I should feel the same if it were about your mother or one of you.'

'And father,' Camilla went on more cheerfully, 'don't worry about the girls leaving school; it won't do them lasting harm. They have got a good start, and they are still very young. Some time or other they may have another opportunity, as I had. And Margaret is such a delicate little creature. Father, I wouldn't have said it if they had been going to stay at Thetford, but I have had my misgivings about her being fit to be so far away. I fear she is very homesick sometimes.'

'Do you really think so?' said Captain Harper with a start. 'Poor little soul! If I thought so--ah dear, my home was not much, but still while my mother lived it _was_ home, and oh how I remember what I suffered when I left it! Who is it that speaks of "the fiend homesickness?" The mere dread of it would reconcile me to having them back again.'

'Then I am very thankful I told you,' said the girl. 'And father, is it not nice to know that in spite of everything we girls have _not_ come off badly? Bessie and Margaret took good places at once, and I did too, you know. Indeed, Miss Scarlett said that if I had thought of being a governess, she would have been very glad to have me.'

'I know,' said her father. 'Well, there is no necessity for that as yet, except for governessing the younger ones as you used to do. And if things go better with me, even if I'm only not worse, when we come home again I can take you all three for Latin and German and mathematics.'

Camilla's eyes sparkled. She was so delighted to have talked him into acquiescence and hopefulness.

'We shall work so hard the three months we are by ourselves that you will be quite astonished,' she said. 'And old Mrs Newing will make us very comfortable; it's there we're to live, you know. It will really be great fun.'

So from this time the move to London was decided upon for Captain and Mrs Harper.

And when Bessie and Margaret bade their companions good-bye at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, they knew, though it had been thought best to say little about it, and the good Misses Scarlett refused to look upon it as anything but a temporary break, that it was good-bye for much longer than was supposed--good-bye perhaps and not improbably for always, to Ivy Lodge and Thetford and all their friends.

Bessie felt it sorely. Little Margaret was all absorbed in the delight of going 'home' again. But both were at one in the real sorrow with which they parted from their companions, among whom no one had won a more lasting place in their affection than blunt, warm-hearted, honest Frances Mildmay.

CHAPTER XI.

GREAT NEWS.

The first Christmas at a strange place or in a new home is always full of mingled feelings. Even when the change has been a happy one, not brought about by sorrows of any kind, the old a.s.sociations give a sort of melancholy to the thankfulness and joy we all wish to feel at this time. And for the young Mildmays it was more than natural that the sadness should predominate.

'Only a year ago _how_ different it was!' sighed Frances, the first morning of the holidays, when there was no school to hurry off to--nothing particular to do or look forward to. 'I shall be very glad when it's time to begin lessons again.'

'I don't see why you should feel so particularly gloomy just now,' said Jacinth, not unkindly. 'Things might have been a good deal worse than they are.'

'People can always say that,' replied Frances. 'If you've got to have a leg cut off, you can say to yourself it might have been both legs. I daresay having Robin Redbreast to go to makes it much nicer for you; I suppose you'll go there a good deal during the holidays. But it doesn't make much difference to me. Lady Myrtle doesn't ask me often, and I don't want her to. I'm quite glad for you to go there, but it's not the same for me.'

And again she sighed.

'What _would_ make you happier, then?' asked Jacinth.

'Oh, I don't know. Nothing that could be, I suppose. Nothing will make very much difference till papa and mamma come home. There are one or two things that are making me particularly unhappy, besides the thinking it's Christmas and how changed everything is, but--I daresay it's no good speaking of them.'

'I know what one of them is,' said Jacinth. 'I can guess it: shall I tell you what it is?'

'If you like,' Frances replied.

'It's about the Harpers--Bessie and Margaret--not coming back again to school,' said her sister.

'How did you know about it?' inquired Frances. 'They didn't tell even me--not really. But I know they were very sad about their father being so much worse, and once, a few days ago, Bessie said it was almost settled they were going to let their house at that place where they live, and that their father and mother were going to be a long time in London, and of course that will cost a lot of money--the going to London, I mean. And--I could tell,' and Frances's voice sounded rather suspicious--'I could tell--by the way, they kissed me--when--when they said good-bye--I could _tell_ they weren't coming back,' and here the choking down of a sob was very audible.

For a wonder Jacinth did not seem at all irritated. Truth to tell, she, too, had felt very sorry for the Harper girls--Bessie especially--and as we know, though she did not allow it to herself, her conscience was not entirely at ease about them. Something had touched her, too, in Bessie's manner when they bade each other good-bye.

'Will you kiss me, Jacinth?' Bessie had said. 'I have been so glad to know you.'

'I have not felt sorry enough for them perhaps,' Jacinth had allowed to herself. 'But really, there are so many sad things in the world, one would wear one's self out with being sorry for everybody.'

'How did you know about it?' Frances repeated.

'I heard something a good while ago from Honor Falmouth; don't you remember?' said Jacinth. 'And last week she told me more, only she said they didn't want any fuss made about it. She heard it from friends. But Frances, do try and cheer up. You've been as kind--at least as affectionate--as you could be to the Harpers. We hadn't it in our power to ask them here or anything like that. I'm sure you tried to get Aunt Alison to ask them, over and over again. And you won't do them any good by crying about their troubles, you know, dear. Perhaps they may come back to school some time or other, even if they're away next term.'

'Thank you, dear Ja.s.s,' said Frances, wiping her eyes. 'You're very kind. I'll try and not be dull.'

She would perhaps have been less grateful for Jacinth's sympathy had she understood the relief it was to her sister, notwithstanding her genuine pity for them, to know that the Harpers were not likely to be a.s.sociated with them any more. Their presence at Ivy Lodge, ever since the acquaintance with Lady Myrtle--more especially since Jacinth herself had become fully informed as to the whole history--had been a perpetual irritation and almost a reproach to her. And the pertinacity with which she repeated to herself that it was not her business to take up the cudgels in the Harpers' behalf, of itself suggested a weak point somewhere--a touch of the self-excusing which tries to whiten over the unacknowledged self-blame.

_Now_, Jacinth could afford to let herself feel sorry for Bessie and Margaret and their family--could even picture to herself ways in which some day, in some vague future, she and Frances might show kindness to their former school-fellows.

'If I were rich,' thought Jacinth, 'they're just the sort of people I'd love to be good to; of course one would have to do it very carefully, so as not to offend them.'